


Fuck Around and Find Out

by lizstiel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Post-Finale, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-14 08:28:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29168061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lizstiel/pseuds/lizstiel
Summary: John Winchester fucked around, and Castiel made sure he found out.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eileen Leahy/Sam Winchester, John Winchester/Mary Winchester
Comments: 52
Kudos: 479





	Fuck Around and Find Out

**Author's Note:**

> while complaining about the upsetting lack of cas beating the dogshit out of john winchester fics out there, someone asked me to write it myself, and like three months later I finally delivered. I'm sorry it took me so long! I might write a follow up to this at some point, but for now it's just what it says on the tin. please read the warnings re: child abuse/mentions of past child abuse.

Time moves differently in Heaven, but Castiel is able to approximate the years, as such:

Dean Winchester died, and twenty minutes later, Sam Winchester joined him. On Earth, Sam lived for nearly 45 years before he followed his brother, but for Dean the wait was nothing more than a short drive through the forest. With Sam riding shotgun again, they’d pointed the Impala north and gone searching for Castiel. That had taken another twenty minutes (forty years Earth time), filled mostly with bickering, swearing, and praying very, very loudly. (“He hasn’t shown yet?” “Obviously not, Sammy.” “Why not? Have you tried praying?” “What? Of course I have -- how many brain cells you lose topside?” followed by an incessant undercurrent of  _ Cas, please. Where are you? I know you can hear me, motherfucker. _ )

They’d eventually found him in the Garden, an odd forty minutes later (80 years, give or take.) Dean made a show of squealing the Impala to a halt, all its various gears and parts groaning in protest as he leapt from it without even fully putting it into park. Castiel, celestial wavelength, warrior of heaven, older than the first stars, stood beneath a great oak tree watching their approach, and found that he was completely and utterly paralyzed with fear. He’d faced down Lucifer, various apocalypses, even God himself, and yet watching Dean Winchester half-sprint towards him across an open field filled him with more dread than he’d ever felt in his long, long life.

There had been a brief moment where it looked like Dean might haul off and hit him, but instead he’d grabbed a fistful of Castiel’s coat lapel and kissed him so thoroughly that Castiel forgot everything he’d ever known. Angels, demons, heaven, hell -- none of it mattered, none of it made sense. There were only his own trembling hands, steadying Dean by the waist, and Dean’s hands, fisted into his coat and hair, respectfully. The wet, hot slide of their mouths, the shaken little noises Dean made in the back of his throat. The years passed around them, lazy and warm, as Dean whispered urgent affirmations against Castiel’s mouth, his cheek, the side of his neck. ( _ I’ve loved you for years, you fucking idiot. God, I’m so mad at you. I love you. Wait, no -- don’t cry. I love you, Cas. I love you so much. Look at me. Dumb son of a bitch. _ )

By the time Sam joined them, they were both crying; crying and laughing in a way that only the punchline of a twelve year long joke can elicit. The prospect of forever stretched out around them in every direction, and for the very first time, they could live it however they chose. Unburdened, free --  _ together. _

No more monsters, no more death.

Only peace, and a well earned rest.

And yet there, in the corner of Dean Winchester’s smile, lay a reluctance Castiel wouldn’t be able to place for many, many years. 

**2 in-Heaven years later (approximately 200 years on Earth)**

Dean’s teaching Cas how to make scrambled eggs.

All he can really taste are molecules, but it’s important to Dean that he knows how. They’re sprinkling in the salt and pepper when Sam appears downstairs, his yawning mouth opening so wide his jaw clicks in protest.

Dean asks, “Is Eileen still asleep?” -- to which Sam waves a vague hand and moves for the coffee maker. Dean hooks his chin back over Cas’ left shoulder and points to the butter sizzling in the pan. “Okay, put the eggs in. Turn down the heat.” He kisses the shell of Castiel’s ear as he shakily pours the beaten egg yolks into the pan.

Sam sips at his coffee, eyes still half-closed, and mumbles from where he’s seated at their breakfast nook: “Mom stopped by last night.” Dean’s entire body tenses against Castiel’s back. Even the hands on his waist go rigid. Sam doesn’t say anything else for such a long time that Castiel thinks maybe he’s fallen back asleep, but then haltingly, he continues: “Dad wasn’t with her.”

The tension bleeds from Dean immediately. He puts his forehead against Cas’ shoulder blade and releases a tiny breath that only the two of them can hear. “Oh, cool.” His fingers tighten in the fabric of Cas’ borrowed t-shirt momentarily, and then relax as he splays them against the skin of his stomach. “Hey, keep stirring.”

The day proceeds as if no one had ever mentioned him.

**6 in-Heaven years later (approximately 650 years on Earth)**

They’re stretched out in bed after a long celebratory night at the Roadhouse, and Dean’s all but asleep when he mutters into his pillow: “Why did Jack bring him here?”

Castiel doesn’t look up from his word puzzle. “Who, Dean?”

“My dad.”

The pause that follows is thick with something Castiel doesn’t have a name for. Dread, maybe. That feeling before the bottom gives out. He sets his pencil down, waiting for Dean to speak on it more, but the minutes pass in tense, stony silence, until the sound of Dean’s snoring eventually breaks it.

An unease settles into the back of Castiel’s mind.

Okay, so maybe one more monster.

**10 in-Heaven years later (everyone’s stopped counting by now)**

They’re fishing the next time he brings it up.

Dean’s just cast out his line after catching a rainbow fish the size of his palm when he asks, apropos of nothing, “Hey Cas, did you see my memories when you pulled me out of Hell?” 

It catches Cas off guard, as they’ve spent the last hour or so in companionable silence, but mainly because Dean has never been very forthcoming when it comes to Hell or his rescue from it. He hesitates only marginally before answering, “I saw -- flashes. Nothing concrete. Feelings, places, people. Enough to know who you were.”

Dean hums in thought, leans back into his chair a little. “You never looked any deeper? Like, back when I was a kid?”

Cas takes his eyes off his bobber to finally scrutinize Dean, but the hunter keeps his eyes on the water. He seems terribly unaffected by their conversation. “I could only see surface memories, though you told me early on you’d prefer me to stay out of your head. You said it was ‘creepy’, if I recall.”

Dean’s laugh is a thin, brittle sound. He purses his lips in consideration. “Yeah, sounds like me.”

The silence stretches, until Castiel finally hazards, “Dean, is there something the matter?”

There’s a moment where he can see Dean’s defenses rising one by one, the lie poised on his tongue, the escape easily laid out before him -- but then, to Castiel’s surprise, he buckles. He deflates. When he looks at Cas, his eyes are shining. “Cas, I --” his voice, hoarse from unshed tears, wavers like Cas has never heard it waver before. He sounds so incredibly small. “I need you to look.”

“Dean?” Rod forgotten on the pier, Castiel leans into Dean’s space. “What’s wrong?”

But Dean shakes his head, closes his eyes like maybe if he can’t see it, it’ll all go away. “I just -- I need you to look, okay? Go back. To after mom died.” He reaches for Cas’ hand, and once he has it, slides it up to cup the side of his face.

The memories come screaming into focus almost immediately. Hundreds of them, bright and raw and painful. Castiel hears himself suck in a shuddering breath as he’s cast headfirst into this terrible mosaic of hurt and anger and confusion. It only worsens as the images start to solidify and he understands what he’s actually seeing:

Dean as a child, terrified and alone. The bruises he’d hide, the bruises he couldn’t. The look in John Winchester’s eyes after a long night of drinking, the monstrous curl to his lip. The sickening, wet slap of his fists against skin. And Dean, paralyzed with fear, unable to move. A boy fashioned into a soldier, an object, a weapon to be repurposed over and over again. Handled like one, too. Werewolves, vampires, ghosts -- none of them held a candle to John Winchester’s ire. And then there was Sam - who was to be protected, to be shielded from the worst of it at all costs.

_ Don’t worry, Sammy, it’s okay. _

_ It’ll be okay. _

_ I’ll be okay. _

Castiel feels a white-hot rage unlike anything he’s ever felt before. It boils in his blood, courses through every inch of his body, hot and fast and hungry. When he pulls away from Dean, the man is crumpled like a puppet with cut strings against his chair; defeated, exhausted.

Castiel touches his wrist, the side of his neck.

Gently, gently.

Dean tries to smile back at him, but in the end just closes his eyes. Castiel stands and kisses the crown of his head, breathes in the sunbaked smell of him, warmth and sweat and their shared shampoo, and then he’s gone.

It only takes seconds to reach the Winchester’s home. The sky above their quiet, secluded little cabin turned dark with clouds, casting Heaven in an almost-night that promises a terrible storm. Thunder rumbles, lightning sparks. Castiel is both. The front door splinters when he tries to open it. He tosses it behind him and strides into the home, searching for one thing and one thing only.

Unfortunately, it’s Mary Winchester who rounds the corner.

“Castiel?” She asks, brow creased in worry.

Castiel’s anger wavers briefly, but then she’s joined by John, who goes from confused to angry in the few seconds it takes him to realize Castiel’s just torn off his front door. “Who the hell are you?”

Through a truly incalculable force of will, Castiel stays on his side of the room. “Mary, I would prefer you not to see this.”

She opens her mouth as if to argue, but something in Castiel’s expression must give her pause, because she says nothing and takes a step back instead, eyes as wide as dinner plates. John, however, storms straight into Castiel’s -- as Dean would call it -- personal space. He’s radiating bravado and anger so thick Cas can almost  _ taste _ it. He’s saying something about breaking and entering, and asking who the hell Castiel thinks he is, but it’s all static to the angel’s ears. He just stands there in the doorway and waits. Waits, patiently, until John Winchester is close enough and then in one fluid motion, rears his head back, and slams it against John’s face as hard as he can.

The answering spurt of blood from the man's now broken nose is, in a word, beautiful.

Castiel’s on him before he can register what’s going on. He’s wrestled them both onto the floor, poised so that John is trapped between the bracket of his thighs as he reels back his fist and punches at every available inch of the man’s body. Mary screams something unintelligible, but it’s lost between the claps of thunder that move in time with each of Castiel’s well aimed strikes. The fury inside of him swells to a great crescendo, and he’s feeling himself slip out of the palatable form of Jimmy Novak into something  _ more. _ He knows his true form must be sliding through the cracks in his facade, because John’s eyes start to widen from fear instead of incredulous anger, and he croaks, “What the hell _ are  _ you?”

“I’m an angel, you ass,” he bites back, venom dripping in each syllable. He lifts John by his collar, brings their faces inches apart and hisses, “And I know what you are, John Winchester -- what you  _ really _ are.”

The unmistakable rumble of the Impala brings Castiel back to himself, if only for a moment. He looks over his shoulder as Sam and Dean both rush into the room, breathless and in shock. John screams up at them -- “Boys! Get this  _ thing _ off me!” 

Sam opens and closes his mouth a few times, and tries to shy behind Dean in an attempt to stay hidden, a gesture so telling that the anger in Castiel licks back up his throat, hot and fierce. Dean looks wide eyed between his father and Castiel, and Castiel waits with his fist pulled back and shaking, for Dean to catch his eyes. When he does, they’re shining with tears, but there’s a small, wondrous smile forming at the corner of his mouth.

When Dean looks back to John, prone and bleeding on the hardwood floor, he raises both his hands in obvious surrender and takes a step back. Castiel strikes him one last time, thunder and lightning booming overhead, and stands, neatly cleaning the blood off his knuckles with the edge of his coat.

“If you ever touch Dean or his brother again,” Castiel says evenly, “I’ll toss you into the deepest pits of Hell myself -- and that is not a threat, John Winchester, that is a promise.”

Mary’s eyes somehow widen even more. “If he --  _ what _ ?” She looks at Castiel, desperate and confused. Having lost all patience for words and human customs, he simply taps two fingers against her forehead, showing her the bare minimum of the memories Dean had shown him. The color drains from her face in an instant. She clutches her stomach and takes a step towards her boys. “I -- Dean, oh my God. I’m so --.”

Dean just reaches for her. She reaches back hurriedly, tucks herself under his chin with a small broken sob. Castiel looks at Dean with a raised eyebrow, the question hanging there between them. Dean looks at his father, bleeding on the floor, and gives a small shake of his head. That’s enough for Castiel. He puts one hand on Dean’s waist, one on Sam’s elbow, and starts to usher the Winchesters out of the house.

“Where the hell are you going?!” John screams after them hoarsely.

“Your son,” Castiel begins, not turning around. “Is a good man, John. An honest man. Everything he ever did was for the love of his family, for the love of the strangers he fought to protect -- and all of it was in spite of what you tried to mold him into.” He opens the back door of the Impala and helps Mary inside. Once he’s closed the door firmly behind her, he continues. “I would have thrown you in Hell on principle alone, but your son -- whom you beat, and abandoned, repeatedly -- in his unending mercy, has decided you can stay. Because despite everything you did and everything you put him through, you’re still his father. But know this.” He turns to look at where John has propped himself against the doorframe, nose broken, eyes swollen and bruised. “This two acre stretch of land is all you get. You cannot leave, and no one can enter unless  _ I  _ allow them. You will spend the rest of eternity completely, and utterly, alone.”

John Winchester, crumpled there in his doorway, says absolutely nothing. All he can do is stare.

Sam folds himself into the backseat with Mary, wraps her in his too-long arms and tucks his face against her shoulder. Dean hesitates at Cas’ side, hand poised to open the driver’s side door. He takes one last glance at his father, and then grabs Castiel by the lapel of his coat and pulls him in for a heated, open-mouthed kiss. The sound he makes against Castiel’s mouth is sinful, and when he pulls away, his smile is wide and completely untethered. “That was the hottest thing you’ve ever done, and I’ve seen you do some pretty incredible shit, Cas.”

“Is that so?” Cas tilts his chin up in challenge. “Just wait until we get home.”

Dean’s eyes widen, and he pushes Cas towards the passenger seat. “Alright, time to go.” He flashes John one of his disarming, cheerily performative smiles, and shouts -- “Bye Dad!” -- doesn’t wait for a response, and instead leaps into the Impala and peels out of the driveway at frightening speeds.

**11 in-Heaven years later (who knows at this point, it's chaos down there)**

Only one person asks to visit John Winchester after that, and it’s Mary.

She waits for him to have healed up from Castiel’s visit, and then storms in herself with a baseball bat and Castiel hovering just over her shoulder. Dean and Sam aren’t allowed to watch this time, but by the twin smiles on Mary and Castiel’s faces when they return, they figure it was a productive afternoon.

_ fin. _

  
  
  



End file.
